


Hallelujah

by EluWrites (DeanC)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: But I wrote it and now it's done., Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face Punching, I know this will kill people, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21561196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanC/pseuds/EluWrites
Summary: We all know this song. It's not a happy song like some people say it is.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	Hallelujah

_ Well I've heard there was a secret chord _

_ That David played and it pleased the Lord _

_ But you don't really care for music, do you? _

_ Well it goes like this: _

_ The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift _

_ The baffled king composing Hallelujah _

Matty and Billy had been inseparable since they had become friends before they were even a handful of years old. Billy was smaller, fair haired and had a slightly clubbed foot that made him walk with a limp that the other boys had made fun of. Matty being bigger, of course took care of his friend and often chased off the bullies with a glare and a threatening stance, until the two of the laughed together and found somewhere out the way to play. Mrs Mason hadn’t thought anything of it, indeed was glad that her boy, tall and strapping that he was, had found someone to befriend. Aside from his size he was entirely too sensitive for her comfort

Years went by and the boys grew and grew up, reaching their teens. They’d continued to remain close, indeed taking a pair of sisters to their first dance, and the four having been inseparable at the occasion. She had many fond photographs of how handsome the boys looked, and how pretty the girls were. Her hopes for him took a hit, however, on checking on her son the next morning. She had entered his room, and found him in bed not with one of the sisters, but with his friend Billy, and in an embrace that could not be mistaken for boyish good cheer. She all but fainted at the sight.   
  
It was decided that Matthew would be sent off to the army a year or so early. Indeed his father pulled some strings and within a week he was to be put on a train out of the state. He’d asked, requested, begged to say goodbye to Billy but neither parent had capitulated. He did manage to catch one sight of his friend as the train pulled out of the station, and the pair shared a look and a wave as it left.

_ Well your faith was strong but you needed proof _

_ You saw her bathing on the roof _

_ Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya _

_ She tied you to her kitchen chair _

_ And she broke your throne and she cut your hair _

_ And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah _

“Amos, it’s unseemly for a lad your age to have gone this far and not started sowing your wild oats…”   
  
All the men in the bar laughed the same way, self-satisfied and condescending. They wounded like a pen of grunting pigs and Amos hated it. He’d far rather be home with a book or with his sister or his friends or anywhere save for with his father. True, it was his eighteenth birthday, but he really didn’t feel like celebrating and especially not here, now or with these people. He tried not to stumble as his father clapped him on the shoulder.   
  
“So, my boy, we’re going to take a sojourn this evening… to the Cat House…”   
  
The grunting was intermingled with jeers and whistles at the name of the local brothel. If the bar was bad, this was going to be worse. He’d already realised that his interests didn’t lie with bedding women. He wasn’t entirely sure -where- said interests lay, and while he could appreciate beauty, he really didn’t feel that drive he was assured he’d develop. 

  
“And I promise you… you’ll leave that place a different man.”   
  
As soon as they entered, he’d been ushered up to one of the soft and perfumed rooms the whores kept. The one who met him there was petite, blonde and very pretty and she’d slid into his lap with ease.   
  
“Miss… I really don’t want to do this. Can’t we just talk?”   
  
“Oh don’t be silly monsieur…” she’d said with a saccharine voice and fake Francaise accent. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it..”   
  
She took off his hat and worked on the buttons of his vest, all the while squirming and shifting in his lap. He tried to stop her.   
  
“I really must insist, madame..”   
  
“Don’t worry, your daddy paid for us to get you into the swing of things, and that’s what we’ll do… Oh girls!”   
  
More of them came in and hands were all over him, guiding him to lie down, tugging off his shirt, holding him in place as mouths and fingers and bosoms and more were applied to him. Damn his body, but it responded, wanted or not, and he’d found release there. He scarce remembered it, but he did.   
  
When he was finally allowed home, he shut himself in his room for three days and cried himself to sleep.

_ But baby I've been here before _

_ I've seen this room and I've walked this floor _

_ You know, I used to live alone before I knew ya _

_ And I've seen your flag on the marble arch _

_ And love is not a victory march _

_ It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah _

“You sure Reverend? I got three of ‘em in here…”   
  
Aly called down cheerfully from the Gem’s balcony. Clayton, as he was calling himself now, noticed a lot about this group. None of them save perhaps Aloysius were good at dissembling, and especially not the Reverend. He turned a distinct shade of pink and crossed himself.   
  
“I’m good, I’ve got my own three, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”   
  
The comments got a chuckle around the table, but it mostly drew Clayton’s eyes to the priest. He’d watched the two other women enter the room, giving him a brief flashback to a younger time in is life, but as he shook his head his eyes had wandered to one Matthew Mason. Their gazes met and held in that moment, the blushing reverend stilling, the uncomfortable gunslinger relaxing minutely.    
  


Matthew felt pinned to the chair by that gaze, felt that Clayton was looking at him, looking  _ into  _ him, and saw everything. The shame of his preferences, of his desertion, of his guilt for the deaths he’d caused, of not being true to himself. He was laid bare and felt vulnerable for it. It lasted but a second before the connection was broken, but he knew he’d not be able to quite look at Clayton the same.   
  
Clayton, for his part, felt an old feeling, one it’d taken him some years to understand and see what it was. One that whenever he’d taken a new name in a new town, always resisted, for every time it meant doom. It meant he’d seen someone whom he  _ wanted _ , who he’d perhaps recognised some interest from in return. Someone who would either want more than he was willing to give, or who would take what they wanted and then stab him between the ribs for his trouble. He’d long since given up resisting the cycle, so he murmured a soft ‘here we go again’ under his breath and mentally prepared to leave Deadwood in the coming weeks.    


_ Well there was a time when you let me know _

_ What's really going on below _

_ But now you never show that to me do ya _

_ But remember when I moved in you _

_ And the holy dove was moving too _

_ And every breath we drew was Hallelujah _

Thunder rolled through the sky above deadwood, followed moments later by lightning flashing through the thick clouds. Rain pelted against wooden and tin roofs, dripped into the church and Mason’s rooms. They’d ridden home through it, bloodied and muddied and soaked to the skin. Aly had been taken directly to the Doc’s office, now ostensibly belonging to Arabella, to get his wounds stitched and otherwise be taken care of by both her and Miriam. Mrs Landisman had fixed Clayton and Mason with the gaze they knew better than to argue with.   
  
“You two boys had both better stay at the Bullock tonight, it’s the only place with a decent roof. And get something warm in you, you hear?”   
  
That tone garnered nothing but joint ‘yes ma’am’s from both of them and off to the Bullock they’d gone. Neither of them were of a mind to speak on what they’d all been through, so they’d sat in silence while they ate and padded their way to the rooms provided without comment.    
  
Clayton sat on his bed, stripped down to just a spare shirt, the rest of his clothes dripping by the fireplace. He’d taken a moment to finally breathe and was about to get into bed when he heard a discrete knock at the door. He opened it to find the Reverend there, similarly in his nightshirt, a lantern in hand.   
“... may I come in?”   
  
Clay had just nodded and stood aside, then closed the door and wedged it as was his habit. He turned to Matthew.   
  
“I… must admit, Mister Sharpe, I was afeared today.”   
  
“Oh?”   
  
He gestured for them to sit, letting Matthew have the chair, perching on his bed himself.   
  
“Yes. That… thing… It showed fears, as we all discussed. Showed Miriam spiders and snakes. Showed Bella her whole family risen. I know Aly didn’t speak of what he saw, but you saw his face, right?”   
  
“Mhm.”   
  
“It showed me you being shot and dying in my arms.”   
  
Clay swallowed, watching Matthew, wide-eyed. He was silent long enough that Matthew didn’t think he would answer and was about to get up and make his excuses.   
  
“It… it showed me… bein’ unable to speak to you, an’ you leavin’ because of it.”   
  
That bit confused Matthew for a long time as he processed it. He did get to his feet, though not to leave, instead to sit beside Clayton on the bed, setting the lantern on the bedside. Slowly, he started to comprehend what the statement had meant, and he reached for Clayton’s hand.   
  
Clay didn’t need much more encouragement, reaching for Matthew in return, dragging them together. The kisses were hungry, bruising things, desperate and needy. Nightclothes were dragged off and tossed aside as they tumbled together. True, they were injured, they were cold and sore and tired, and they tried to be aware of that, but the ultimate need was for eachother, for hands and tongues and lips.    
  
Matthew ended up gently rolling them and settling Clayton on the bed, needing a moment to slow things down. He was barely afforded one before legs were wrapped about his waist and he was encouraged,  _ begged _ , to do more, to be inside, to take what they both wanted.    
  
The storm was a rolling, thundering backdrop to their movements, the flashes of lightning giving them both momentary images of the other, the violence and raw force of nature outside feeding into their movements inside. When Clay came, it was with Matthew deep inside him, the Reverend’s mouth at his shoulder, teeth pressing to his skin, and his nails dug into a muscular back. Matthew found release soon after, stifling his moan of relief against Clayton’s mouth. They all but passed out not long after, tangled in blankets and each-other, sated, safe and warm. 

_ Maybe there's a God above _

_ But all I've ever learned from love _

_ Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya _

_ And it's not a cry that you hear at night _

_ It's not somebody who's seen the light _

_ It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah _

Clayton woke with a start the next morning, the sun streaming in through the blinds of his room, making him squint. He felt an arm around his waist and a warm chest at his back and closed his eyes again.  _ Well, shit. _ Memories of the previous night came back to him and he knew whose arms he slept in. Knew he’d given in to his urges yet again and that his downfall was at hand. The panic started to rise and he had to get  _ out _ .    
  
Carefully, he nudged Matthew’s arms aside so he could stand. Carefully keeping his back to his bed, he checked on his clothes, still damp, but pulled them on anyway, grimacing. Grabbing his pack, guns and hat, he saved his boots for once he’d got out the door and closed it. He all but ran for the stables, throwing a handful of gold at one of the grooms and taking a horse.    
  
The sound of the door closing woke Matthew, though as was his way, he was a little slower to come to comprehension in the mornings. The bed was still warm, but the room was now bereft of anything that had belonged to Clay. He pulled on his nightshirt and crept to his own room to dress and head down. On not seeing Clayton having breakfast, he started to wonder.   
  
The young man behind the bar told him that Clay had left in a hurry a few moments ago, and that nudged the wonder into concern. Out on the street, people were starting their days, but he saw no sign of the gunslinger. He did catch a commotion from the stables.   
  
“He fucking WHAT?!”   
“He threw the gold at me and took that bay mare, sir! Said to keep the change…”   
“... That bay mare was  _ my fucking horse _ you eedjit! God damn mother fucking son of a bitch Sharpe. Good riddance.”   
  
Matthew jogged to the stables and approached the stable boy, already getting a handful of the gold they all now had into his hand.   
  
“Hey kid, you saw Sharpe leave? You know which way he went?”   
“Yeah, Reverend, he went that way!”   
  
The kid pointed to the road leading south, then found his hand turned over and a handful of gold put into it.   
“There’s more if you can tell me which horse -doesn’t- belong to someone, and get it saddled in two minutes…”   
  
He was galloping out of town within ten minutes, his leather duster flaring out behind him as he pushed the horse faster. For once, he thanked his cavalry training for letting him know how best to push a horse and how to stay seated on it at high speed. He trusted the horse to keep them away from any boulders, giving the grey stallion it’s head, and scanned the horizon for sign of Clayton. Before long he saw a figure on horseback on the horizon, and he prayed it was who he’d hoped to see.   
  
While he’d started at a gallop out of town, Clayton knew he had a long way to go and didn’t want to see people long enough to change horses, so he’d slowed to a walk. He didn’t have the mind or feeling for speed that morning. Such felt joyful, and he felt anything but. His mind kept giving him flashes, from the lightning, of what he’d seen the night before. Matthew reaching for him, Matthew rolling him onto his back, Matthew enraptured, watching him moan and writhe.    
  
“No. You had your night, you ain’t gonna be stabbed in the gut again. Time to get gone.”   
  
He ignored the sound of galloping hooves behind him until they slowed and a grey horse got ahead of him and came to a stop, blocking the road. He knew who he’d see in the saddle so didn’t look up.    
  
“Get out the way, Reverend. I’m leavin’.”   
  
“The hell you are without saying goodbye at least. Look at me.”   
  
He didn’t, just remained still, resigned. He deserved the anger. He didn’t expect Matthew to draw up alongside him, face to face, and hit him so hard in the jaw he fell from the horse in shock. It gave rise to his own anger and he glared up at the other man.   
  
“What the fuck?!”   
“At least you’re lookin’ at me now…”   
  
Mason got down from his horse and stepped over, offering Clay a hand up. It was hit aside and Clayton stood under his own power, rubbing his jaw. He kept his eyes on the other now though, wary, ready to defend if he was hit again.    
  
“Just tell me  _ why... _ ”   
“Because I ain’t gonna get in so deep that I don’t see the knife comin’ again.”   
  
He couldn’t keep his eyes on Matthew so he lowered the gaze again, turning away. Now he put voice to his fears, it did sound pathetic, a cowardly way to deal with things, but there it was. Clayton Sharpe was a coward and was running away from a priest who dared to show him affection. When Matthew spoke again, it was gentler.   
  
“... Is it me or them you’re scared of?”   
“Both, but more them than you. Well, was until you hit me…”   
“Coulda waited for me to come with you.”   
“Wouldn’t ask you to leave your flock, Reverend.”   
  
Rolling his eyes, Matthew stepped closer, hands spread to show he wasn’t going to punch Clayton again. He got it, he really did, he’d seen the fear, hells he felt it himself. He knew their job could mean that one or both of them could get hurt, and he was starting to see what Clay’s fear was in not getting to express himself. Now he saw the fear was more of his own making than anything else. Clayton Sharpe was too afraid of his own feelings to give them a chance. He’d be damned if he let that stand. He carefully reached for Clay’s face, forced their gazes to meet.   
  
“Screw that flock who don’t really want me anyway.  _ You  _ want me, and that’s all that matters to me.”   
  
They kissed again, but this time it wasn’t the violence of the night before but something softer. Clay was sure it lasted an entire year rather than moments, but he could feel how much Matthew held back, filtered his emotion, and gave him only the gentlest, most tender parts. Even after it broke, they remained close, arms wrapped around each-other.    
  
“Look… come back, alright? I’ll make sure I’ve got a bag ready. If things turn to shit here, we’ll run, _both_ of us, yeah? I don’t think they will, but I can be ready if they do.”   
“Al-alright.”   
“Promise? No runnin’ without me?”   
“Promise.”   
“Halelujah. Lets go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so I did this. I'm dead now.


End file.
